Bob-Bob in the House

For most of last week we shared the house with a chicken in a cage. Cochen spent her days in the dining room listening to Radio 4 and her nights chirruping to herself in the guest bedroom. I spent my days cleaning up poo from the cage, her food bowl and her water bowl (her aim is good), replenishing her food bowl and water bowl, administering vaseline to her sore legs and antiseptic cream to her wounded toe, and carrying her from bedroom to dining room to utility (and temporary treatment) room. Teri spent her days staring fixedly at Cochen's cage and her evenings staring fixedly at the closed bedroom door behind which Cochen and her cage had disappeared. When you're a dog for whom continuously following and rounding up chickens (bob-bobs in dog speak) is a daily routine, to find one in your house is a mind blowing experience. The mental struggle to maintain normal (for her) indoor obsessive compulsive behaviours while simultaneously guarding a chicken was plain to see in her furrowed brow and crazy eyes. Just one more day of this and there's the very real possibility that we would have witnessed the first spontaneously combusting collie.

So why was Cochen in caged isolation? Bumble Foot. Or rather suspected, internet diagnosed Bumble Foot. Cochen has always been missing the end of one toe and, on the same foot, with the middle toe bent upwards, pretty much at an angle of 90 degrees to where it should be. I suspect she was trampled on as a chick as when she came to us at about 24 weeks it was clear that her foot had been like that for some time. The deformity has never been a problem to her, not preventing normal scratching behaviour or causing any obvious discomfort. Until now. It started with a Ministry of Silly Walks style gait, followed by standing on one leg more often than on two legs. An inspection revealed her bent up toe to be warm and slightly swollen. A foot wash revealed a small dark scab on the pad of that toe. Browsing poultry forum photos suggested this was typical of the onset of Bumble Foot. Great name for what is essentially an infection under the skin as a result of a wound from a thorn or similar such pointy item. I don't know if the name derives from the fact that the swellings are similar to those caused by bee stings or because chickens with big swollen feet bumble about. Maybe a little bit of both. 

Cochen appeared to enjoy the warm Epsom Salts foot baths. She was less happy about the minor foot surgery to remove scab and generally dig around the little hole (sounds grim but I swear that was the advice of the poultry forum gurus and believe me, there are plenty of photos online to back this up). She was completely unfazed by life in a cage under the intense stare of a collie. She failed to make the connection as we sat nearby eating eggs for lunch. Now she's back with the flock I miss having the chirruping, clucking, bob-bob-bobbing and thud-thud-thud of furious pecking as the soundtrack to my day.

Not So Magic Animal Magic

Keeping animals brings joy. Like being treated to one of Teri’s aerial displays…

   

…. or watching the chickens gossiping like old women …

 

… and witnessing trophallaxis between honey bees

(don’t be smutty, it’s the posh word for food sharing).

But with joy comes the triple whammy of helplessness, guilt and frustration. Helplessness because you want to help but don’t know how. Guilt because you wonder if it was all your fault in the first place. Frustration because saying “I’m trying to help” and “this will make you feel better” mean “blah blah blah” to the sick animal who has one eye on its escape route and the other on the loaded hypodermic needle in your hand.

Once upon a time you would have found the likes of Elvis Presley, Rhett Butler, Mr Darcy and John Cusack sipping champagne at my fantasy dinner party. Now I’m thinking of ditching John Cusack in favour of Dr Dolittle and shoving Mr Darcy out of his chair to make way for James Herriot. Dr Dolittle could teach me how to whisper words of comfort in an assortment of animal languages (well I’m learning Welsh so how much more difficult can piggish and chook-speak be). Mr Herriot could teach me all I need to know about animal anatomy, be on hand for all the tricky bits, but in return for fabulous cooking at each fantasy dinner he’ll never charge me a penny for his veterinary services. In fact, while we’re on the subject, goodbye Rhett Butler and hello Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall - if all hell breaks loose and Dolittle and Herriot mess it up, the cooking tips may come in handy. Naturally Elvis retains his place at the fantasy dinner table. Afterall, someone’s got to keep my champagne glass topped up and entertain the diners as they exchange hilarious animal husbandry anecdotes.

So why the tales of woe? The bible tells us that when Noah stocked his ark, the animals came in two-by-two. What the bible didn’t go on to explain was that when the animals on the ark fell sick it wasn’t a case of two-by-two, but one after the other in quick succession. It started with a cat(and now I find myself humming the tune for Hot Chocolate’s “It Started with a kiss”!). As Charlie lacked the opposable thumb and technical savvy to check his symptoms online, I played hypochondriac by proxy. It didn’t take long to diagnose him as being on the cusp of multiple organ failure and generally knock, knock, knocking on death’s door. Cue sharp intake of breath, hand wringing, heart ache. The vet only had to say “so what seems to be the problem” for the dam to break. Rendered incapable of speech due to tears and unable to mime “he’s puking his guts up all over the stairs, please save him or I’ll never forgive you and will curse all vets ‘til kingdom come”, Dave had to come to my rescue. One neck shave, one blood test, one thryoid test, 3 injections, many pouches of dirty cat comfort food and £130 later, he’s right as rain, thinner but just as lazy. Diagnosis – poisoning.

Exactly one week later I’m stood at a sink gently massaging the abdomen and applying Vaseline to the vent of a chicken who’s standing in a bowl of warn water quietly clucking to herself. Within the hour I’m back at the vet, but with a chicken instead of a cat in my cage. One abdomen syringing (nasty, really nasty, seriously nasty), 10 traumatic days of antibiotic injections and £22 later, she’s still alive and has laid the sum total of one small funny shaped egg. Diagnosis – egg bound infected abdomen.

Two weeks later, my heart sinks as I hear the words “Fatty’s limping”. Lo and behold, within 48 hours I’m welly deep in mud watching Dave attempt to pin down 20 kilos of angry, squealing, limping pig. Don’t try this at home, kids. Believe me, not one of us is enjoying the daily bum injection. Diagnosis – God only knows, but please, please, please let it not happen again.

So what next? Well, I lost a honey bee colony. And I’m pretty sure I saw the dog limping yesterday. Is that sheep just resting?

Being Bo

Never before have I empathised with a nursery rhyme character. I always thought Bo must have been a sloppy shepherdess to lose her sheep so carelessly. I owe her an apology. I’d had my sheep for less than 24 hours before I lost them, although unlike Little Bo Peep I did know where to find them as I saw them hurdle the fence, disappear through a gap in the hedge and head for the hills, tail not so much wagging as kicking up metaphorical dust into my face. Not a great start to my shepherding career. It wasn’t entirely my fault. It was early in the morning, and unlike Bo in her frock and carrying her crook I was wearing pyjamas and carrying stale bread, plus I wasn’t expecting to find sheep in the pig field, or rather I was expecting a delivery of sheep but wasn’t expecting the farmer to slip them into the field under cover of night. I’m not sure who was more startled at first, the sheep or Teri, but the flock of three took one look at the dog and exited stage left. Obviously, only ever having met real collie’s up until this point, the flock were not to know that Teri has no interest in sheep and considered them nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle barring the well worn route to her beloved pigs. Never having seen a sheep in flight before, the ease with which each one sailed over the new fencing rather took me by surprise. There was nothing for it, I’d have to drag Dave out of bed and head off in search of my errant flock of three.

Having located the woolly escapees in the corner of the next field, it took an hour to slowly, slowly corral them back into our field via the most circuitous route possible. After breakfast it was straight out with the barbed wire, hammer and staples to raise the height of the fencing.

  

Needless to say Teri remained locked in the kitchen for the duration of this endeavour. You won’t be seeing her and Dave in the World Sheepdog Trails any time soon, unless the event is changed to include pulling blankets through tiny tyres, aggravating cat flaps or trading sticks for balls. Steve and Charlie joined the party though – perhaps there’s a market for a show called One Man & His Two Cats, “cwm by”, “lie down”, herding mice into a box - I’ll get on the phone to Channel 5 ….

If I’m honest, I haven’t warmed to Babs, Margo & Myfanwy (yes, the flock have now been named). It’s hard to engage with an animal that insists on keeping its distance. Mostly I see woolly bums moving away from me, or ears pricking up and eyes peering suspiciously at me over the grass. The pen has been constructed but stands empty, the sheep nuts have been bought but remain uneaten. Plans are afoot to rectify this though. Enter the electric fence! 

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,

And can't tell where to find them;

Leave them alone, And they'll come home,

Wagging their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,

And dreamt she heard them bleating;

But when she awoke, she found it a joke,

For they were still a-fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,

Determined for to find them;

She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,

For they'd left their tails behind them.

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray

Into a meadow hard by,

There she espied their tails side by side,

All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh and wiped her eye,

And over the hillocks went rambling,

And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,

To tack each again to its lambkin.

Fastest pig in the West

I’m sure you’re heard of “Babe”, a rather successful kids film about a small pink pig with a talent for sheep herding. I think we may have the reverse situation on our hands. Teri is a Welsh border collie. She’s supposed to have an instinct for sheep herding. She prefers pig herding.

For the past few weeks the sheep on the neighbouring land have been helping themselves to our tasty pasture. Each morning there can be up to 30 sheep and lambs grazing around the pig pens. This is of no consequence to Teri who, without so much as a cursory glance in their direction, makes a beeline for the pig pens, leaving me, in dressing gown and wellies combo, to corral the sheep without canine assistance and shepherd them back where they belong. Meanwhile, Slater and his girls rush to the fence line to meet Teri, there follows a short stand off, nose to snout through the wire. Teri leans forward bum in the air, nose to the ground, poised to run. The pigs stand their ground, beady eyes fixed on Teri. Who will make the first move? The pigs turn tail and make a mad dash across the mud to the other side of the pen. Teri takes the perimeter route. Who will get to the other side first? This performance continues, with the pigs zigzagging the length and breadth of their pen pinball fashion. This happens every day, two, three, four times a day.

At first I thought Teri was the ringleader, with the pigs simply reacting to her, but the more I watch this routine, the more convinced I am that it’s the pigs who are in control. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the pigs positively revel in this ritual, and quite deliberately rev Teri up. There’s a knowing smile on Slater’s face as he leads his girls in a race to the other side, ears flapping in the wind, four trotters leaving the ground as Rosie leaps the food trough like a championship hurdler, mud flying up as Honey takes the corner at a cracking pace, Blanket at the back trying to keep up. All very amusing, but not ideal when you’re trying to fatten your pigs not break the porcine land speed record!

They don’t make them like they used to

Puppies are destructive. There are toys that are built to last and there are toys that simply can’t cope. Now, call me naive, but in a Duracell bunny type test between a bespoke puppy toy and a standard kiddie toy, I’d put my money on the puppy toy. Puppies have razor sharp teeth way before a teething child develops seam ripping gnashers. Puppies are well down the road of manic toy in mouth head shaking while babies are getting to grips with mashed bananas with pureed carrot. And who ever saw a baby leaping into the air, performing a back flip and snatching a soft toy from mid-air. Naturally, the manufacturers of puppy toys have taken all of this low level research into account. Or have they?

Exhibit 1: Beanie Baby Cow. Cost: £4.99. Date of submission to puppy machine: 1st August 2010. Condition of toy: nearly new, no significant wear or tear. Date of complete destruction by puppy machine: 18th November 2010. Condition of toy; ears & horns missing in action, severe facial reconstruction, loss of brain matter, bean stuffing distributed across kitchen floor.

That’s a good three and a half months solid play by a mad Welsh collie with hard core nibbling, ripping and licking skills, at a return on investment of approximately 5p per day’s play.

 

Exhibit 2: Puppy’s First Christmas Reindeer Toy. Cost; £2.99. Date of submission to puppy machine: 19th November 2010. Condition of toy: brand, spanking new. Date of complete destruction by puppy machine: 19th November 2010. Condition of toy: Stuffing removed; squeaker surgically separated from innards; outer casing soggy, dirty & shredded.

 

You do the maths. That’s the last puppy toy I’ll be buying. I’ve got an entire childhood’s worth of soft toys to sacrifice to the puppy machine.

Boo!

There are scaredy cats, and then there are scaredy pups. We’ve been living with scaredy cat Charlie for years, with his fear of the hoover, his hatred of the guitar and his noisy plastic bag phobia. Now we have scaredy pup, the collie who’s afraid of traffic, barking dogs, bats, inanimate objects and who, on encountering 30 errant sheep rampaging in our field, turned tail, ran home and left Dave to do the herding all alone. Don’t expect to see Dave and Teri on “One Man & his Dog” any time soon. In fact, the only things Teri isn’t afraid of are people and cats. She enthusiastically greets any stranger and refuses to be rebuffed by the spittings & hissings aimed in her direction by the Three Amigos.  Toilet training has been successfully completed (praise the Lord!), but there’s a long way to go with every other form of training. I growl, I praise, I shout “no, no, no”, I wag my finger menacingly, I give up and sacrifice my slippers for a moment of peace and quiet.

Toms galore

The furry whirling dervish that is Teri the pup is taking a wee nap, so I have time for a little work around the property. Taking on a small puppy is no mean feat, especially in the area of toilet training. Pups like to “eliminate” after drinking, eating, sleeping and playing, and you have a 60 second window to catch her before she decides to do her business.

We currently have a routine where the alarm goes at 6.30 am and one of us gets up to try to catch the morning rituals. If neither of us are feeling up to it, a sleepy game of paper, scissors, rock decides who goes down. After this the early bird is allowed to go back to bed, and at 7.30 the one left in bed has to go and let the pup out again and feed the rest of the animals.

With the pup asleep, Phil slipped off to Lampeter to get some more books from the library and a plethora of jam jar sundries. She has been a busy bee over the last few days as we have been given a small display in a shop in Covent Garden to sell our wares and promote the holiday business. The shop is called Tribe and is being set up by our friend “Chelsea” Ali. It is the brain child of her employer entrepreneur Serge Bueno and is about promoting new businesses.

As you can see we’ve only sent a few jars of preserves, but the next batch is on it’s way and will be there before the opening later in September.

With Phil out I sneaked out up to the poly tunnel to harvest a load of tomatoes.

I plan to roast them with olive oil, basil and seasoning before turning into yummy passata to freeze for consumption during the dark winter months.

Well Teri has resurfaced so I must take her………….bugger!

Eat it, bite it, chew it

Puppy power is alive and well and causing havoc at Banceithin.

Behind this innocent looking face is the cold, calculating mind of a pooing, biting, licking, weeing, jumping, chewing machine. Life, our dining room chairs and my slippers, will never be the same again.  And I’m not sure if the cats will ever forgive me no matter how many consolatory cuddles and treats I dish out. If looks could kill I’d be six under feet by now. Stevie and Nessa have conveniently forgotten that they were once the incoming usurpers.

The puppy training regime is going well. Teri can now jump when she should sit, sit when she should walk, and walk when she should be “eliminating” in the designated spot. At this rate we won’t need to buy another bag of chocolate training treats for a year or two. My favourite time of day is sleep time, as it’s only then that I can get in and out of the kitchen without being ambushed by a ball of fluff.

Here’s a question for all you dog owners. Why, oh why, do dogs eat poo? I’d heard tales of this less than endearing canine habit, but thought (and hoped) it was a nasty urban myth. Unfortunately this has proved not to be the case and for Teri a walk around the house is an all you can eat buffet serving a smorgasbord of tasty chicken poo treats. And I thought having cats who lick each others bottoms was bad! Goodness only knows what the chickens get up to in their house at night.

Say hello to Teri!

There are some big decisions to be made in life. To be a lawyer or to be an engineer. To move to Wales or to stick with the rat race. To order the cheese plate or to go for dessert. Deciding whether to get a dog or not is right up there with the life changing moments.

Some serious deliberation has taken place but today we finally admitted to ourselves that a farm is not a farm without a dog. And more importantly, a truck is not a truck if there isn’t a dog hanging out the window, tongue lolling, ears blowing in the wind.

So ….. meet Teri (she’s the cute fluffy one not the gurning dork in the glasses).

 

Teri will be 6 weeks old this weekend and will be joining the Pickworth family a week later. That means we have a week’s worth of cat pre-counselling to get through. Maybe I should drag my Spit the Dog puppet out of the loft for use as a counselling tool. As a child I fooled the security guards at a London gallery into thinking Spit was real, so surely I can convince The Three Amigos.